


No Soul To Sell

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben is a Bad Boy, Cheating, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: Ben Solo starts his first year at university in the company of his high school sweetheart Tai.Then he meets prim prissy Armitage Hux and the silverfox daddy who runs the local biker bar and everything goes to hell. Thegoodkind of hell.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Ren Prime, Ben Solo/Ren Prime, Ben Solo/Tai
Comments: 12
Kudos: 192





	No Soul To Sell

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as twitfic _ages_ and finally decided to do something about editing and posting it, and holy shit??? It's like almost 13k??? Of smut??? And Ben doesn't even get fucked by Ren Prime??? So yeah, I dunno. Really there ought to be a second chapter about that, or at the very least a threesome, but this is what I've got so far and if you're into it...well. Enjoy it. I know I did.

Everything about his first year of university will be perfect. He’s at the school of his own choosing, not the one his mother or his uncle considered “a better fit” for “a student of his needs.” He’s doing a variety of papers to feel out the major he hasn’t set in stone yet. And he’s here with Tai – sweet, kind, _perfect_ Tai, who will never turn his back on him. No matter how fidgety he gets, how frustrated, how furious – Tai stays at his side.

He’s been there since childhood, since their time together in Uncle Luke’s endless spiritual classes. Ben had never fit it there. Tai seemed like he’d been there always. Friendship between them logically shouldn’t have been on the cards, but here they are: coming up on their twenties, boyfriends since sixteen. No doubt they’ll be husbands, one day. But he’s happy enough to leave that to the future. They haven’t even got to sex yet, but Ben’s happy with that, too. Tai is enough. He’ll always be enough. No-one understands him like Tai does.

Ben first meets Armitage Hux through one of his politics classes. It doesn’t take long for him to discern that while Armitage is a PhD candidate in aerospace, he's taking undergrad polsci because he’s savvy enough to realise half the battle in shooting shit into space is getting enough funding from the government to be allowed to do it at all.

At first Ben hates him. Everything about him is just too _much_ : too snooty, too smart, too snarky. The issues only begin when he starts devoting significant chunks of their shared lectures to dreaming of all the ways he could shut him up. First it's just smart remarks. Then it's shoving him into walls and down stairs. Then it's covering his mouth with his hands or fists. But then he accidentally thinks of shutting him up with his mouth. His fingers. His tongue.

His dick.

The fantasies just grow more and more filthy from there. Getting Armitage on his knees. His stomach. His back. Bent over a desk, a park bench, a bathroom counter. Every time Ben sees Armitage Hux, he imagines him naked, gasping, covered in sweat and come -- both his own and Ben's too. And yet they've hardly spoken. Armitage always looks at him with disdain. He knows who Ben is. Who his family is.

Ben wants Armitage to know who he _really_ is.

That leaves him shaken to his very core. He's never realised before now how very little he's ever really _thought_ about sex with Tai. It's always been this rose-tinted vague fantasy of a soft wedding night, picture perfect and post-coitus. Just imagining them lying together in the bed afterwards, holding each other. Whispering drowsily into the sweet scented early evening air.

Like they do now.

There's never been any real thought of the actual act between them. Of who would do what. Of how it would feel. Of how far it would go.

Every time Armitage glares at him over the rim of his reading glasses, Ben can only think of how his dick would feel, shoved right up his tight little asshole. And he hates himself for it. He needs to distract himself. Tai has no idea of his lust for Armitage, of how often he's found himself in their shared bathroom, jeans around his ankles, furiously wanking off to the mental image of his own come beaded in soft red eyelashes. He has to do _something_. Something that isn’t Armitage Hux.

Han casually mentions a place he's heard of, one awkward call home. A local bar, run by a guy who's into vintage motorcycles. Han and Ben used to mess with that shit when they were kids. Maybe Ben could check it out. See of it's worth Han coming into town sometime and checking it out himself. Ben doesn't really give a shit what his dad wants. They've not been close since Ben was five, and first realised that Han didn't have to go away for "work" all this time. Han had to go away because he couldn't handle life with a wife and kid. But he always loved tinkering. Riding. Being free with his hands and then his very life.

He goes.

And the moment he sees the shirtless man standing behind the bar, silver both of hair and eye, his dick begs to be held down under that wall of smirking muscle.

He walks out that first time. Shaken. Silent. Goes home and Tai's not there, which is for the best because as soon as he's in the front door he strips off all of his clothes like they're burning him alive and he jerks off right there: naked, chest heaving, one hand braced against the door frame and the other frantically pumping his cock until he comes so hard his vision actually blacks out. It feels like forever before it comes back in fits and starts of silver and too-bright colour.

He doesn't even know if it was the bartender or Armitage he was thinking of. Whether it was Armitage on his knees in front of him, or the bartender at his back, shoving him harshly forward with every sure thrust.

Maybe it was both.

Though it doesn't realise that until a week later when he finally ventures back and sees Armitage draped over the bar, smirking into his drink as the bartender leans forward to whisper in his ear. Ben has never seen Armitage outside of the university. If he hadn't known better – even if he _had_ known better – he'd assume Armitage never left campus. More than once Ben has wondered what it would be like, to slip into the aerospace labs late in the night, to watch Armitage from the shadows as the man goes about his work...has pictured slipping forward, taking those long white fingers from whatever miniature rocket he's working on, and giving him a shaft of hot hard flesh to wrap them about instead.

But Armitage is here. Prim proper Armitage, who always wears trousers with sharp ironed creases, crisp starched shirts buttoned right to his chin, cuffs tight about slender wrists that Ben yearns to press his lips to. Prim proper Armitage, whose skin is always smooth and clear, hair slicked back as if it were plastic rather than organic. It's wild, now. Untamed. Freed like a crown of fire, his chin and cheeks stubbled with hair as bright as that upon his head. A natural colour, then.

Immediately he thinks of what might be between his legs, and his own groin grows tight.

Armitage looks over as if his attention has been summoned by Ben's desire. As if he can hear how Ben cannot decide if he'd rather Armitage be clean shaven and smooth, or to see for himself bright brilliant hair around his stiff dripping dick. And one eyebrow lifts, even as Ben's attention shifts to the vee of white skin revealed by the low cut of his tight black t shirt.

And he _aches_. It's not even entirely in his dick, though he's sporting a semi even now, even in a crowded smoky bar full of strangers save for one man he can't call much more than an acquaintance. But everything burns hot under his skin, even as Armitage's curved hot smile twists across patrician features to send a chill down his spine.

The bright eyes of the bartender rest on him and Ben knows it. It doesn't matter, not when Armitage turns his head and slips his tongue in the man's mouth. He jerks where he's standing, as if struck by some bolt from heaven. Face burning, he feels as if all eyes are on him, as if everyone in the bar can hear his filthy thoughts, as if he's shouting them out for everyone to hear, to mock.

Yet no one looks at him. No one pays even Armitage and his paramour the slightest heed. Not even when the bartender leans forward, slides one huge hand into Armitage's shirt.

The racket of the crowd doesn't mean Ben can't hear the _groan_ Armitage breathes into the older man's mouth. But even that is forgotten when the bartender hooks a thumb over the low neckline of the shirt, pulls down until a hard pink nipple jumps out, and then catches it between said thumb and finger—

Ben looks away. He must. His breathing comes hard and short and his erection is getting far too close to full hardness. It wouldn't be the first time he's humiliated himself in public. That's basically been a staple of his young life. But this would be a first. Being so horny in public he can't even walk with a normal gait because his damn dick doesn't know how to be covert.

This has never been an issue before. Sure, he's been horny plenty of times. He and Tai regularly make out with a bit of bump and grind thrown in. But to feel this way, as if he might die if he doesn't get release hard and soon—

But when he dares a glance back to the bar, both men are gone. It's like being kicked in the gut. Punched in the solar plexus. Ben's familiar with the feeling; no matter how many times he's been schooled to treat his martial arts training sessions as studied bouts, he's turned so many of them into outright brawls.

But familiarity doesn't soften this blow. Even if his dick does. With a creeping nausea, Ben blunders for the door, drawing attention from the other patrons for the first time. He pays them no heed now, blinded by lust and a burning disappointment that makes no sense whatsoever. He doesn't know these men. They're not his friends. And he certainly wouldn't be entitled to oogle at their shenanigans even if they were.

Gulping deep breaths, tasting the crisp late autumn air – it leaves him lightheaded, rather than restoring any sense. And the people loitering outside are giving him far more stares than anyone inside ever did. Stumbling away, he goes for the alley next to the bar, dark and narrow and blessedly empty. He might get some equilibrium there. Or mugged. But he'd welcome a fight right now. A release of blood would still be a release indeed.

He’d figured the alley for likely a dead end, wasted space between close-set buildings. But there's a light towards the end, one that has him narrowing his eyes. It shouldn't matter. It's none of his concern. He should be worried about deflating his dick without earning himself a citation for public indecency, about getting home without being pulled over for drunk driving even though he's not touched a drop of alcohol.

But the light beckons, some siren promise in soft yellow glimmer. He follows, finds the alleyway gives out onto a courtyard. The back of the bar is made up of several rolling garage doors, which is no surprise given the line-up of bikes at its front entrance, Ben's amongst them. It's not even odd that one door is up, light spilling from bare bulbs behind it. The bike sitting amongst the detritus of an auto workshop has as much right to be there as anything else.

But what stops Ben dead, keeps him in shameful lurk in the shadows, is the naked man sitting upon its wide seat: broad thighs spread wider, cock sticking up in wild thick curve from the silver hair at its base. He's utterly casual, as if he does this every day. As if it's normal for him to be hard and nude in the background of a workshop in the back of a bar, seated on what Ben realised is a very rare, very _expensive_ motorcycle.

But then, maybe it is normal. For him. Because the bartender grins wide, hands loosely braced as he leans back and spreads those thick thighs just a little more open, welcoming of the tall slender form that sashays forward crowned in bright red hair.

And they say nothing aloud, though their eyes blaze with a want that hardens Ben's stupid dick in a second. He can't see Armitage's face from this angle, but the bartender's smirk says all that needs to be said as Armitage flows elegantly to his knees and presses lips to the thick head of the other man’s dick.

For a moment, he sees only red. Like he might go charging in there with a roar, like he might shove the bartender to the floor before throwing Armitage down there too, ripping open his jeans to feed his own dripping cock into that soft pink mouth and down his long white throat.

But he does none of these things. He only swallows against the hard lump in his throat as the bartender throws his head back with a long groan, chest thrust out and fingers tightening on the vintage leather. He's covered in scars, Ben notes for the first time. They are ropey and dark and irregular over shoulders and chest and abdomen, though they go no lower than his waist. Ben lingers there, and not only because Armitage tilts his head, works lips and tongue down the shaft. The bartender is huge. But Ben is larger. Not that he'd know for sure, unless he had both of them in hand to compare.

And he wants that. Wants all of it. But he can't have it. None of this is within his reach. None of this belongs to him. He's just a silent voyeur, eyes as dark as the shadows that shroud him, watching as Armitage now gives the tip of the bartender's dick a prissy little peck of a kiss, then unfolds again to full height. Ben stares. He's always known Armitage is tall. But that he'd be so _flexible_ with it—

"Stopping so soon?" the older man asks, reclining back so far as the motorcycle will let him; Armitage gives a haughty little sniff. Though still fully dressed where the other is naked, it's the bartender who seems to have all the power here.

Yet Armitage will not give up so easily. He flicks his hair out of his face, smirks. "I know what you're about," he says in that cut glass accent of his, Received Pronunciation so perfectly bland that Ben has never worked out what part of England actually birthed Armitage Hux. It's hardly his greatest concern when Armitage leans forward over the far larger man, says sweetly, "I could give you the blow job of your _life_ , and yet all you’d want is your dick up my arse."

Two great palms clap about two slim rounded cheeks, draw Armitage close. "What can I say, I'm a man who enjoys a good firm peach." And he's grasping Armitage about the waist, turning him around as he himself straddles the bike, and _oh_ —

He's pushed to the rear of the seat, Armitage between him and the steering set up. He'd lifted Armitage as though he'd weighed nothing, and while slim as he is—

Ben slaps a hand over his mouth, teeth biting hard into the trembling flesh. The bartender has reached under and around Armitage's middle, releasing his trousers just enough to pull them under the swell of his ass, perked and presented as he leans forward and arches his spine and—

Ben can't see it. The bartender has all but covered it with his monstrous hands, fingertips bruise-deep into the pale skin. And his face disappears between the cheeks, slurps and sucks already obscene as Armitage thrusts his head upwards, elbows braced on the handlebars.

"Ren," he groans, and for a second Ben hears _his_ name, is simultaneously cold as low Arctic winter, and elated as a man who’d found endless sun and summer. But the chuckle that all but vibrates through what little Ben can see of Armitage's ass brings him crashing back down. It's not him. It will never be him that has Armitage pushing his ass back into his face, hissing at what must be the rough stab of a tongue into a tight tiny hole.

"You don't need all this romance," Armitage, peevish as Ben's ever heard him in class. And then he's hitching his trousers up, sliding off the bike to disappear just out of sight into the workshop.

The bartender – _Ren_ – puts his hands behind his head, relaxes back into the bike. His dick is hard as ever, and again Ben compares their size with a scowl. He's cupped his own dick before realising it, finding it almost hard. The only way to truly compare would be by letting it get to its full length, of course. There's no other way to judge. He's got the zipper undone before he realises, tucking underwear under balls to get his hand around his own dick, to pump it until it sits firm and long and _hard_ in the round of his palm.

Armitage has returned, tube and box in hand. He plucks a foil square from said box, casts it aside; he's then unrolling the condom over Ren's dick with the ease of having done it a thousand times before. And suddenly Ben is furious, hand beginning to move in harsh short strokes even as Armitage opens the tube, takes a palmful of lubricant and works it over the sheathed cock before him.

"Nice ride you got there, Sailor," he drawls; an old joke, perhaps, given Ren slaps him on the ass with a growled, "sit your ass down, baby boy."

"You're hardly my father," Armitage sniffs back, straddling the bike again with startling ease; Ben has never seen his leg go so high. But Armitage is reaching for that monstrous dick even as he slides his ass back to meet the cradle of Ren's hips, and – like a puzzle piece they meet, slot together as though it could ever be so easy. As if Armitage's ass, mostly masked by the fact he's wearing most of his trousers still, had been designed solely to take this man's giant cock.

When Ren crowds forward over him, snapping his hips like a whip crack lash, it seems as though Armitage believes it. His cry crashes through Ben's sense and straight to the hand pumping his own dick. Ben's never really watched much porn. In truth, he never much dwelled on the idea of sex; the contentment of simply _being_ with Tai had always been enough. Curling around him had oftentimes been all he needed to feel done semblance of calm, to centre himself and soothe at least _something_ of the roiling undercurrent of rage that's marked his whole young life.

After meeting Armitage, he'd started exploring the myriad options the internet had to offer. He's barely scratched the surface, and he knows it. And yet he's also now certain that nothing he could search up online would ever compare to the scene before him: the way Armitage curves his back down, ass thrust up as Ren shoves in.

Much as he'd like to see all of those long limbs bare, the pure sensuality of seeing Armitage so unbound while almost fully dressed brings Ben so close to orgasm he has to stop the frantic jerk of his fist, curving forward with his free hand fisted in his solar plexus, upper teeth biting his lower lip hard enough to taste both salt and iron. The friction of skin on skin should be too harsh, too hard, and yet he's leaking so much already everything feels to be slipping from his grasp, his dick as much as his sanity. Yet he blinks back the sting of sweat, keeps a laser focus on where Ren has paused a moment.

His ass is pure magnificence. With balls pressed right up against the surprisingly generous curve of Armitage's own ass, he's flexed and tensed to the point where Ben wants nothing so much as to stumble over there himself, to drop to his knees and trace out every rise and dip of hard muscle displayed there. Yet he can do nothing but breathe in low shallow pant, desperate to stay as close to silence as possible. He does not want this to end. It cannot end, not yet.

Armitage appears to feel the same, for while Ren holds his position, broad hands fierce in their grip around narrow thighs, he shifts in slow circles, grinding back on the cock speared impossibly deep inside him. Ben simply has no idea where it could even _go_ ; both Armitage's usual tailored attire and these tight trousers and shirt make the lean lines of his body sinfully obvious. And yet he's swallowed that massive cock entire, and is now taking his pleasure from it on his own terms, shifting up and down and groaning in low feral delight as he finds exactly what he wants.

If Armitage can take Ren, he could surely take Ben. His hand now begins to move again, imagining tight grasping heat about said dick. He's a little larger, yes. But surely that would only make it better -- for him, and for Armitage. Tighter and deeper and _harder_. Ben would make it so, so good for Armitage. Would hold him down the way Ren is doing now, pressing one hand to the small of his back and the other to the nape of his neck as he begins to pump his hips, sweat in rivulets down the broad back, generous mouth open in sudden bright laughter, fingers flexing to bruise and eyes flashing like blue gas fire, silver hair shining even as crimson burns, and his dick aches and Armitage _wails_ as Ren shoves in with animalistic grunt and though Ben can see nothing of it he knows Armitage has come, with his spine ridged sharp curve and nails dug into leather and his voice lost now to silence even as his red red mouth shapes the endless sound of his release.

Ren still moves now, without grace or rhythm, but the beauty of it remains undeniable: an apex predator reaching the penultimate moment of his hunt, the last harsh seconds of effort spent before the release of the kill. Armitage, no longer still, shudders now beneath him, trembling with what Ben can only imagine is the shock of coming coupled by the relentless pursuit of a second.

Ben knows none of this for himself. But he can imagine, his own hand stilled, too tightly fisted about his own dick as Ren first slows, then thrusts into Armitage one, two, three times so hard that both Armitage and the bike rock forward. On the fourth he halts, back rippling into perfect arch, silver hair falling like rain as he throws his head back and all but _roars_ , Armitage gasping as he pushes back hard to meet him this one final time.

In the silence that follows Ben holds his breath, heart throbbing in time with the ache in his dripping dick. He wants nothing more than to come himself, to come with _them_ , to share in this perfect storm of debauchery that has broken over him entire.

But he cannot. He can only watch as Ren pulls back, swiping one massive hand through sweat-rough hair, teeth and eyes both flashing with his lazy amusement. He's naked save for his heavy boots, but Ben has never seen a sight that seems more natural, more _right_ , even as Ren reaches down to snap off the condom with no care. Come splatters from the latex even before he tosses it to a trash can near the workbench at their backs, and Ben's tongue burns with the desire to taste it for himself.

Armitage is still on his stomach, pressed up at the head of the bike; with that casual flexibility of limb and moral alike, he reaches back and slides his trousers up over the steel of his ass before rolling over, rearranging his weight to recline upon what Ben can only assume is the bartender's machine. Not that Ren appears to mind the display, wide arms now crossed over broad chest, dick only half-soft where it rests between his thighs.

"No souvenir, then?" he says with a cocky grin, though nothing about the expression of either body or voice suggests this is a question. With a put upon sigh, Armitage rolls his eyes skyward, then slides from the bike like rain from oiled leather.

"I really should start charging for this," he says, and reclines back against the bike one more time. Raising one booted foot, he inclines an eyebrow to match. He also asks no question, and from Ren's snort, it's also one he's answered without words many a time before.

The big hands are anything but clumsy over the laces of the boot, over the delicate ankle it reveals once removed. Armitage offers the second foot, and the ritual is completed with the same effortless speed. And then he rises as Ren remains crouched on the hard concrete floor, turning so that his ass is all but level with his face as his hand return to his waistband.

But this time, Armitage does not stop when the trousers are pushed beneath the swell of his ass. He also does not push down his underwear -- and Ben, hard dick still in firm hand, sees for the first time that Armitage is not only wearing underwear, but that said underwear is in fact wrought of delicate red lace, stark as blood against the white of his skin.

He steps free of his trousers, prim as any puritan dropping her handkerchief to some fortunate suitor. It's utterly at odds with him then sliding the lace down ass and thigh and smooth rounded calf, though he doesn't get the chance to remove them himself. Ren claims his prize, even as Armitage glances back over a shoulder, clicks his tongue.

"Greedy," he chides, yet the soft affection in the single word makes Ben jerk as though electrified, shockingly close to coming right there is his vulnerable shadows. It doesn't help that Ren chuckles, crumpling the come-damp panties in one fist as he leans forward, nuzzles one cheek against Armitage's own.

"I'd compensate you for every pair you give, if I didn't already know I give you better every time you do." And his other hand shifts, long fingers cupping one ass cheek as the thumb drops low, then slides up to a halt between them. He presses hard, and Ben can only guess at the bolt of pleasure as Armitage rocks back into it, legs clear in their trembling.

"Bastard," he breathes, and Ren laughs again, flowing to his feet.

"Princess," he returns, and slaps him hard on the ass. "Put some pants on, before the boys come back to see what all the screaming's about."

Snorting, Armitage bends forward, treating Ben to not only a marvellous view of his ass but also a tantalizing peek of what lies between before he pulls the trousers back up over his hips. "Your _boys_ are no doubt causing trouble enough of their own elsewhere," he says, turning back. "I'm sure there's more than a few drunken cunts out there that they can practice their profession on." Even as the filthy words spoken in that princely accent have Ben all but choking, Armitage tosses his head, swipes a hand over his brow. "So. Are you going to buy me a drink, or not?"

Ren laughs, a full throaty sound that still reverberates through his chest like thunder. "Let me get my own pants on, first."

"Don't make me wait," Armitage warns, though he's already turned to flounce away – and though he moves with perfect smooth military step, it _is_ still a flounce.

With a shake of the head, Ren's reaching for his trousers, pulling them on without even removing his boots. Ben keeps his silent aching vigil in the shadows, desperate to come but unable to go.

Ren pauses, just a moment. Ben holds his breath. Then the man turns to go, and his relief washes through him almost with the power of release itself.

Then Ren glances back and Ben bites down hard on a scream as orgasm tears through him like a rusted sword, eviscerating him in precision thrust, hips bucking wildly and free hand clapped to mouth as the other fills with hot copious shame.

Ren turns, walks away with no sign he'd seen a thing: even as Ben goes to his knees in the dark and hunches over the last tremors of the best orgasm he's ever known in his entire life.

*****

Monday comes too quick, the first class he will have again with Armitage since...since whatever that was. He's not naive enough to believe it has any significance to Armitage; all he knows of the experience is that he may have glimpsed a classmate he scarcely acknowledges even in said classes. It doesn't matter to _him_ that Ben stumbled home and lay awake into the lengthening light of morning, that Ben jerked off three times before noon, that Ben avoided his boyfriend until Tai finally brought him a mug of green tea at 3pm and massaged his shoulders like he thought it was just another of Ben's periodic lows, asking in a soft voice whether he'd taken his meds today, if he wanted to talk, or just be quiet together, or just be alone a little bit longer—

The lecture passes by in a blur. Nothing of it sticks; he doesn't even try to exasperate the professor with his usual bullshit interjections. He just sits there, laptop on but screen blank, and studiously looks anywhere but at Armitage Hux.

This is why, when class finishes, that Ben doesn't see him approach and just about leaves his skin when that crisp rounded accent speaks but a moment from his ear.

"I saw you."

Everything narrows to a point, blood turned to shrieking sludge in his veins. Turning his head to face the man standing beside him takes more energy than the grasping dying steps to the peak of Everest; the fact he's still sitting means he must look up to him, to where those pale eyes gaze down with all the vague interest of a distant alien god.

"I..." he croaks, mortification allowing him no more than that. Armitage blinks, then snorts.

"You didn't stay long," he observes. "But I'm assuming you were there for a reason?"

Ben does not know what to say. He doesn't know if there is anything he can say. But Armitage seems to be drawing back from the conversation he'd initiated, and he still can't be sure what Armitage means, and—

"You're into bikes?" he blurts out, and winces at the sudden flood of memory, of the mental image of Armitage being pounded into the seat of one such bike, body taut as the string is some instrument tuned to perfect resonance.

Armitage snorts, adjusts the strap of his messenger bag. "Is there some reason I shouldn't be?"

Even as he can't push back on the memory of this man's ass in his tiny panties, sliding them down into the waiting hands of the man who would revel in the mess he'd caused in them, Ben cherishes the wave of relief. Surely Armitage wouldn't approach him, wouldn't have this conversation with him, wouldn't spare more than a moment of loathing for the person who had jerked off in the shadows to his hard fucking.

"I thought you did aerospace."

"I'm an engineer," he says, a little too sharp. Ben craves a cut deeper than that. "Come with me."

His brain blue screens. "What?"

Armitage raises an eyebrow, and Ben realises he can't tell what colour his eyes are. Blue, green, perhaps even grey – but the laser focus in them is what matters now, directed as it is onto Ben alone.

"The next class will start soon," he says, with an edge of exasperation as if he speaks to a child. "Come with me to the caf, I want to speak with you."

A frisson like fear shifts down his spine, but – there's elation beneath it. Maybe Armitage _does_ know. Maybe he doesn't.

Ben just knows that he wants him.

Despite what Armitage said, it's not the student union they head towards; they're crossing campus in completely the opposite direction, Armitage keeping a smooth rapid pace. Ben feels clumsy as he tries to match the pace, and it seems Armitage isn't a talker. That's likely for the best, as Ben's thoughts are in such complete tangle he can't even begin to unsnarl them.

The air bites cool at his cheeks, the very tips of his ears where they poke out of his hair; autumn is dying fast now, winter threatening with every grey dark morning. Thanksgiving will come soon, and he and Tai will go back for it, their first trip home since they'd moved out here together. Ben's abdomen grows tight, hot: but he doesn't slow. He only glances sideways to see the sharp profile of Armitage silhouetted against the sky at his side, and keeps walking.

Armitage takes him to a small coffeehouse just off campus, one Ben has never taken any particular notice of. He waves him to a small table in the corner, goes to speak to the barista at the other end of the room. The lighting is surprisingly dim, but the blonde's height and sheer strong _presence_ makes her impossible to miss. Ben can feel her pale eyes burning into him as Armitage swipes his card over the reader, then saunters back over to take his own seat.

"I..." Ben clears his throat, moving in awkward half-rise from his chair. "I guess I should go order my—"

"Sit," Armitage commands, and Ben does so without considering a single implication of such obedience. Those strange eyes are grey in this light, shot through with a silver so faint Ben can't help but remember Ren's hair, glinting in the low light as he’d thrust into Armitage's ass.

"I've already ordered for you," Armitage continues, very nearly stern. Ben can only stare, though Armitage goes on as if he'd never expected a protest anyway. "You're Han Solo's kid."

The hackles rise high, sharp: even with the rich dark lust he feels for this stranger, such statement is not easily forgiven. "Oh, is that why you want to talk to me? Because of my dad?"

With a snort, Armitage reached up, makes unnecessary adjustment of his perfectly set hair. "In these circles, he's hard to miss," he drawls. "What with the illegal street racing. The backroom gambling. The borderline deathwish modifications he and his riders make to their every machine."

With a scowl Ben looks down, finds a blurred dark reflection in the varnished wood of the table. "That's my Pops," he mutters, hands already shifting to fists.

He looks up at Armitage's sharp sudden laugh, surprise both bitter and welcome. And Armitage is accepting their drinks from the silent watchful barista – she's taller than Armitage, hells, she's likely taller than _Ben_ – smirking at him like he knows every secret Ben's ever had. Sliding a cup over, Armitage says nothing, though he raises an eyebrow. Ben can't help but scowl ad he looks down to it, not accepting though not rejecting it, either.

"You don't drink coffee, then?”

He glances up, finds Armitage watching him over the rim of his cup. His drink doesn't look to be coffee, but rather a tea so steeped as to be nearly black, strong-scented though Armitage swallows it as if it were water.

Ben looks to his cup, smooths away his frown, fails miserably. "Not really."

"You could at least be polite and try it." Setting his cup down, Armitage drums his fingers on the table. "I'm not interested in your father, Ben."

The sound of his name upon Armitage's lips has him hunching his shoulders forward, groin tight, lips pressed together. "Then why did you want to talk," he asks, flat, hard.

"Because I thought you might have an interest in bikes yourself," Armitage says, light. "If you do, it's something you and I share."

He closes his eyes. He can't help it. Behind them, all he can see is Armitage leaning forward to retrieve his trousers, bare ass on complete display.

"I never liked it the way my father did," he says, very quiet. The coffee is a latte, the cinnamon on top in some fractal swirl. "Not the bets. Not the raving. I just...liked to ride."

The low chuckle startles him into looking up. It's a mistake: Armitage's eyes, deeply blue, bore into him like a diamond-tip drill. "I like that," he says, lips faintly curled. "I'm a tinkerer. I modify, and I improve, and I perfect." A flash of tongue, and he wets his lower lip. "But I need something to work with. Some _one_."

"I..." Clearing his throat, he stares again into the untouched coffee. "You want someone to test your designs?"

"I _need_ someone," he corrects, lazy now. "And I'm willing to give you the opportunity."

Beneath the table, his hands are in hard fist – but still they tremble. "Can I ask you something?"

Armitage leans back in the high backed chair, his curiosity not quite masked. "And what's that?"

"Ren. The bartender." But he stops, not quite able to yet go on. Armitage's brow furrows.

"Bartender?" The confusion clears as rapidly as it had settled, low smirk returning. "Oh, he's not the bartender. He owns the place."

That comes as no surprise. Ben still can't help the stab of jealousy that lands low in his gut. "He's your boyfriend."

"I – what?" For a moment, he seems perplexed. Then he laughs – he actually _laughs_ , and it's a light and rich sound that is so utterly at odds with everything Ben knows of this man that he can't help but stare.

But as it continues, he can't help a mulish interruption. "You were flirting with him. At that bar."

"I flirt with a lot of men." The look he gives now is considering, thoughtful; beneath its analysis, Ben wants only to turn away.

"Do you want me to introduce you to him? You'd hardly be the first. He has that effect on people." His eyes narrow, as if running through countless calculations. "Though don't you have a boyfriend?"

Ben starts, looks up. Guilt lances through him, hot and sharp. "What?"

"That boy, I see you with him after class sometimes. The bald one. He looks like a monk." Armitage tilts his head, lips twitching. " _Is_ he a monk?"

"No! I don't know. No." His jaw works, nails curling into his palms. "But he’s not my boyfriend. He's just...a roommate. From back home. We've known each other since we were kids. We went to martial art and spiritual classes together. My uncle took them. He was always better at it than me…well, the spiritual part, anyway. But…"

He's babbling and he suspects Armitage knows it. Yet he just nods, shrugs a little to match.

"Well, if you want Ren to fuck you, I'll introduce you." Armitage's eyes take him up and down, and even though the majority of his body is currently hidden behind the table, Ben feels naked beneath his rapid assessment. "I think he'd enjoy you."

The flush starts at his collarbone, begins a slow and steady climb to his hairline. "He...he would?"

"Oh yes," and the low purr of his voice has his dick twitching. "Though I really must warn you – he plays rough. Are you ready for that?"

He blinks, more blood in his groin than in his brain. "What?"

"He's not gentle. He knows what he wants, and he'll take it whether you're ready or not." Swallowing the last of his tea, Armitage adds, "Forgive me for saying so, but you're...young. I'd hate to throw a lamb to the big bad wolf. So to speak."

Fury washes through him, breaking through like stormwater over a levee. Ben clenches his eyes tightly shut, breathes through his nose once, twice, three times. When he opens them, Armitage is still there, watching him with open fascination.

"You have a temper, don't you," he says, and to Ben's shock he sounds pleased rather than pissed off. "That can be useful. Though I do think you're not ready for Ren."

"Then what _would_ make me ready?" he snaps back, without thinking. Armitage smiles, eyes gone very dark: black deep forest, waiting to swallow him up whole.

"I suppose I might be willing to help," he drawls, and this time his tongue runs along his teeth. "How about that, then, Ben Solo?"

"You want to fuck me?" he blurts out, mouth again running riot with words better swallowed back. With a sly grin, Armitage reaches between them, skims the froth from his untouched coffee with one long finger. Sliding it into his mouth, he pulls it out with slow certainty, lips rounded and eyes even.

"I'm a very good teacher," he says, finger still pressed to his lip. Then he reaches for the napkins, wiping his finger off with a fastidiousness that Ben finds almost as fascinating as his flirting. "And I suppose I could spare you a lesson or two."

Swallowing hard, Ben keeps his silence now as Armitage extracts a small bottle of hand sanitiser from his messenger bag, squirting a little into his palm before thoroughly rubbing it all over his hands. Ben watches, tries desperately not to imagine those hands busy over his dick. From the way it continues to stir in his pants, he's failing miserably.

"Well?" The light tease in his tone has vanished, now more business-like than anything else. "I'm not the type to make offers more than once, Ben."

"Which one?" he croaks, and Armitage chuckles, slides the sanitiser bottle back into his bag.

"Both," he says, "though if you want to accept only one but not the other, well. It is your choice."

The gleam in his eyes tells him that this would be the _wrong_ choice, even as Ben's stomach churns in fierce panic. He can't say yes. Not to the sex, anyway – watching Ren and Armitage fuck had been one thing. A very perverted thing, but not a thing that matters. Not really. Not like it would matter if he let Armitage get his dick up his ass, if he let Ren do the same, if he let them both do it at the same time—

"Yes," he blurts out, and Armitage raises an eyebrow even as he says, "Yes. Both. I'll ride your bike. And...and..."

"...you'll ride me?" he finishes, satisfaction oozing from him like honey from a ladle. "Very good. I'll look forward to it."

With that he rises, collecting his bag with such cool calm it's like they'd just agreed to make a study date, rather than...rather than...

"Write down your number," Armitage says, sliding a small neat notepad across the table. "And your address. Pick a time when your roommate isn't likely to be home. We don't need an audience."

Even as he cringes – at the idea of Tai seeing any of this, or the memory of his own stint as a voyeur, he doesn't know – Ben blinks up at him. "...my address?"

Impatience seeps into him now, sharp and hard. "We're certainly not doing this at my apartment. And if you want a motel, you can pay for it."

Very still now, Ben feels as though the world has closed in around him. He doesn't want to lose his virginity in some anonymous rented room. But he doesn't – he doesn't want—

"Wednesday afternoons," he blurts out. "My bo—my _roommate_. He has aikido then. A long training session. They—"

"Wednesday afternoon, then," Armitage interrupts, perfectly smooth. "Write down the time and your address. I'll be there."

His hand shakes the entire time. Armitage folds the paper in neat lines, slides it into the right pocket of his slacks. Ben watches the long fingers disappear, re-emerge, but he can't lift his gaze from Armitage's crotch.

"You _are_ a strange one, aren't you." Startled, Ben glances up – but already Armitage walks away, perfectly composed.

Ben, left behind, is a ruin. Wednesday comes both too fast, and too slow. He's missing class for this. He'd had to go out before Tai did, because otherwise Tai would ask why he was staying home. Tai knows his schedule. He's also been concerned about him, asking if things have been too much. If school is getting to him. If he thinks maybe he _does_ need to find a new therapist here in the city, rather than relying upon emails with the one back home.

Ben guesses he should make an appointment to see her when he's home over Thanksgiving. Not that he'd tell her about this. This is just...a thing. Experimentation. College is about experimenting, isn't it? It's not like he wants to date Armitage. He has Tai, after all. Tai even brought him breakfast in bed yesterday, a protein shake and thick slabs of ciabatta slathered with peanut butter and layered with apple slices. Armitage wouldn't do that. Surely he wouldn't. This is just...it's just _sex_. Something Ben needs to get out of his system. Just once. Maybe twice, if Ren will have him. And then he can...he can _forget_ about all this.

He doesn't think about how he offered to test any modifications to Armitage's bikes. That's something else entirely. It's something he can worry about later. Right now, he's fretting over the cleanliness of his room. The cleanliness of his _ass_. He's not sure he can deal with a lecture about his lack of housekeeping skills, though with that said, the mental image of Armitage telling him what to do isn't a displeasing one. It's just that he already feels sick.

It may have been for the best; he's not eaten much the last day or so. He'd gone to the pharmacy Tuesday morning, but hadn't even made it to section of the store where they sell enemas, let alone actually bought one. What he's read online suggests it's unnecessary prep, but still he worries it's something Armitage will have expected. He's not sure what he'll say if Armitage asks. Maybe Armitage will walk out if he hasn't. Maybe he'll refuse to do this again. Ben doesn't think he could stand asking for a rain check. It's been hard enough—

The knock comes in hard short rat-a-tat. Ben bolts upright from the couch, crosses the small front room in barely three strides. With heart in mouth he opens the door, half expecting it to be Tai, even though Tai has a key and Tai lives here and Tai—

Armitage, silhouetted by the sun with his hair burning like fire, raises an eyebrow. And without a word he steps in, leaving Ben to close the door at his back. The lock clicks into place with a finality that sounds like a mistake moving far beyond the reach of repair. Armitage pays it no heed, turning to look at the room with brow furrowed. He then returns that sharp gaze to Ben, whose spine stiffens to straightness beneath it.

"Which room is yours?" he asks, and wordless, Ben indicates the one whose door is open. Further down the small hallway, Tai's door is firmly shut. Armitage doesn't even glance at it as he shrugs off his coat, moving to disappear into Ben's room.

When he trails him in, it's to find Armitage seated on his bed, one long leg crossed over the other, straight-backed and stern.

"Take off your clothes."

At first, Ben does not move. He does not speak. Armitage repeats himself, just a little louder, just a little sharper.

"Take off. Your clothes."

And still, he cannot move. He can only stare into those eyes whose colour makes no sense, save for the fact the rich afternoon sunlight has put flecks of gold amongst the blue and green. Perhaps Armitage sees something in his own eyes in return, for they soften suddenly in a way Ben wouldn't have thought possible only five minutes ago.

"Oh, Ben," he says, strange and gentle, "are you a virgin?"

How he wants to deny it. But his face, always too expressive, always the damned traitor, no doubt gives him away. Even so, Armitage uncrosses his legs, thighs spreading just a little as he leans forward, balances his arms upon them, fixes a gaze both stern and tender upon Ben alone.

"I won't fuck a liar," he says, and even the coarse words are like song upon his tongue. "All you have to do—"

"Yes!" he shouts, and it bubbles out of him in furious hot lahar. "Yes, damn you! I'm a virgin! I've never fucked anyone, and no-one's ever fucked me!"

It's not silent, even after he's done: he's hunched forward, chest heaving, fingers curled to hard fist at his sides. Though not unmoved, Armitage shows no fear. He only nods, taps a thoughtful finger upon his lips.

"Let's start over, shall we?" he says, still in that low voice that leaves Ben in mind of a trainer crooning to some wild beast. "Why don't you go into your bathroom. Turn the shower on. Get in, and close your eyes."

If anything, Ben should be asking him to leave. He turns instead, walks wordless to the bathroom. Not bothering to close the door behind him, he strips off in seconds, every movement automatic, without thought. The water is cold when he steps under it; he hadn't bothered to let it warm up. He's an idiot. He's always been an idiot, and he likely always will be. Everything he's ever done—

The light touch on his shoulder whirls him to attention, eyes popping open and hands raising to balled fist – but it's only Armitage. Of _course_ it's Armitage, standing before the opened door of the shower stall, eyebrow raised again and completely – _gloriously_ – naked.

"May I join you?" It's not a question, and Ben steps back, wordless again as Armitage steps primly forward. He's rarely glad of his mother's wealth, but in this he's glad he accepted her help in securing a decent apartment. Neither of them are small men, for all Armitage's leanness, but the bathroom is generous with its space, and there's room enough for them both here.

But they're still very close. Closer than Ben ever has been to another naked man, and his hands clench and unclench uselessly at his sides. Armitage, with faint smile, raises his own.

"Ben, you are beautiful," he says, so soft. Before Ben can protest, before Ben can say anything at all, Armitage takes his face between his palms and leans in to steal all words with a kiss.

At first, he's all but useless, standing helpless and still as Armitage works his lips over Ben's own. Then he surges forward, arms going around that slim form in fierce firm embrace. Armitage makes some startled noise, but it's not one of protest, so Ben doesn't care. Instead he crowds Armitage up against one shower wall, pressed skin to skin from what feels their feet to their lips, opening his own mouth to push his tongue into his.

Ben loves kissing. He always has. Maybe that's why he's never really thought he's missing out on sex, at least before he met Armitage. Whenever he's craved comfort, sought intimacy, he's been able to get both by snuggling up into Tai, by laying with him on couch or bed or occasionally floor, trading off kisses without longer moments of quiet, just drinking in the sanctuary that Tai has always so willingly given him. Even before they became romantic, that long sweet summer when they’d been sixteen, Tai had been a place where the chaos of Ben's family, of Ben's thoughts, didn't have to intrude. Tai had been safe. Always.

Armitage is burning hot danger, body smooth beneath warm water as Ben devours him. Yet Armitage matches him, pressing back up against him, one hand sliding to fist in his hair and the other moving with swift purpose to grip hard at his ass. When Ben breaks the kiss to gulp air, Hux leans forward, latches onto his throat, begins to suck greedily even as his hips start a slow thrust. The heat of him is hard against his belly, Ben's own dick tantalisingly close where it is also trapped between them, and he _wants_ —

"Ben," Armitage whispers, and with water caught in his eyelashes and blurring his vision, Ben meets his hungry gaze. "What do you want?"

The question comes as such a surprise that Ben has no answer. For a long moment he only stares, though Armitage continues to move, rubbing his cock up against Ben's abdomen in maddening tease. He swallows hard, the fall of the water matching the pounding of his heart, and he doesn't _know_ what he wants at all.

"Touch me." It's gasped, breathless. "Please, just touch--"

One hand moves between them, takes him firmly in hand. Ben takes a groaning step, gets the shower controls pressed into the small of his back for his troubles. The pain of it pales in comparison to the dizzying pleasure of Armitage's strong strokes over his dick, certain and sure.

"You _are_ a big boy, aren't you," he muses, and Ben just stares as Armitage looks only to his dick, smile small and secret. "My my, I'm very sorry, Ben – but I really must try something."

"What—"

Letting go, Armitage flows to his knees in a way that ought to be impossible for such long limbs in such a small space. But the laws of physics are hardly Ben's main concern, not when Armitage grips him firmly about the base and slides his cock into his mouth, and does not stop until lips press to his firm mess of pubic hair.

The groan that escapes him comes feral, feels too loud to have come from him alone. Armitage bobs his head once, twice, then pulls off entirely; throat tight, Ben only stares as he smirks up at him, lips gone red and slick and hand still tucked around Ben's dick.

"I knew I could take you," he purrs, thumbing over his slit; Ben nearly comes, then nearly comes again when he imagines what Armitage would look like, on his knees naked and face covered in Ben's release.

But Armitage is rising, kissing him again; there's a faint salty taste to him that can only be Ben himself, and Armitage has his hand around him and pumps hard and furious this time. Ben comes sudden, hard, pulling back to groan even as Armitage yanks him back in to kiss him again. His hips drive up into his grip, seeking further pleasure even though it's already been given, and Armitage chuckles, leans back to look at him with such tenderness that Ben's knees threaten to give way entirely.

"Sweet thing," he murmurs, and his fingers rise, press against his lips. Only as he feeds them inside does Ben realise they're thick with his own come, salty and strange and yet he takes it willingly, Armitage's smile growing softer as he presses deeper yet.

"So very sweet," he says, and kisses him again. A heavy kind of haze settles over him, then; the water's still warm, and Armitage's hands are gentle as they work over his body. It's not sexual now, though it's certainly still sensual as he soaps him up, rinses him clean. Ben closes his eyes, turns his face up into the spray, and lets it beat down on his face in soft rain.

Only when Armitage takes his hand to lead him from the shower – _Armitage_ takes his _hand_! – does Ben blink back to some semblance of sense. And the first thing he notices is that Armitage's dick, flushed and long and somehow _neat_ , remains hard between his thighs. The hair around it has been clipped back, and glimmers as bright as that on his head. Ben feels his throat go dry, his tongue curling in his mouth. He's reaching for it even as Armitage thrusts a towel at him.

"Don't be greedy," he chides, and Ben is faintly reminded of that night in the alleyway, of Armitage and Ren together in the dim golden light—

"Do you have any other clean towels?"

Startled back to earth, Ben blinks foolishly, struggles for words. "Yeah, the cupboard just outside the door, on the left – ah, but don't you want – shouldn't I—"

Armitage disappears for a second, returns with a towel slung low about narrow hips. It doesn't hide the hard dick just barely held in place behind it, even as he raises a hand to towel at his hair.

"I am patient," he says, very clear, very certain. "But I do want you in your bed now, Ben."

He dreamwalks through his own apartment, not even bothering with a towel. His hair spreads sweetly over the pillow as he falls back onto the coverlet, and Armitage snorts.

"Roll over," he commands, casting one of his own towels aside; when Ben does, he strips back the bed to the sheets, runs an appreciate hand over the curse of his ass.

"Very nice," and before Ben can say anything else Armitage grips him about one hip and rolls him back, straddling his thighs as he does so.

He's naked, now. _Very_ naked. It's somehow different to what it had been in the shower – and not just because Armitage's ass rests in the vee of his own hips, crease pressing up against the rising repeat interest of his own dick.

But Armitage has fixed his attention upon Ben's chest, palms pressing to his pecs, fingers fanning out as though he uses their span to measure them.

The little finger of the left shifts, flicks over the nipple beneath; Ben jerks, knocking Armitage off balance. He reseats himself with a chuckle, rocking his ass back into place with far more adjustment than actually necessary.

"You work out," he observes, and his fingers shift so that his nails rest upon the skin, skim lightly as he draws his hands down. "Even with your size, I hadn't quite expected that." When his eyes fix upon him now, they seem suddenly very blue, bright in the sunshine of a perfect autumn day. "I bet you could pick me right up. Fuck me against that window without once letting my feet touch the ground."

With valiant gusto, Ben's dick tries to leap back to full hardness, fails miserably. "I could," he says all the same, voice hoarse. "If you want it. I could. I really could."

His smile becomes lazy again, hips shifting in maddening slow circle. "I'm certain of it," he murmurs, "but not today." Even as Ben's eyes widen at the thought of being permitted this again, Armitage rises, moves with fey grace towards his messenger bag. "I have another task for you," he says, glancing back over a bare shoulder; in this light, Ben can see it is lightly freckled. "I need you to be good for me, Ben. Can you do that? Can you be good for me?"

His thighs part without true thought, ass shifting as he tilts his pelvis upward. Armitage smirks to see it, taking from his bag both a small box and a tube of lubricant.

There's something feline to the way he moves, leaning over the bed so that he might return to Ben on hands and knees. Damp hair, more deep crimson than bright gold now, gives the illusion of some great cat, stalking its unknowing prey through the tall grass. But Ben watches his every move, accepts the hard kiss as Armitage stretches out beside him, moves his hand to take his dick again.

It's overstimulated, not quite ready for more. Armitage moves slow, his kisses drifting to a softness that matches that of his fingers. Drowsily Ben leans into it, lets himself fall into it, and hums soft satisfaction.

He then gives a soft whine of disappointment when Armitage's fingers withdraw. It's not for long. They return, slick and smooth now, shifting down to cup his balls. Ben gasps, shifts, settles again at Armitage's low laugh. His fingertips skim light over them, knowing and gentle.

"I won't hurt you," he whispers, and then two fingers move to trace a line over his perineum, up between the crease, and stop only when they press up against the furl of muscle they seek there.

Ben gasps, goes rigid. With a press of lips, Armitage smirks again, draws back. Ben follows in protest. One hand to the centre of his chest presses him straight back down.

"Turn over." A command that cannot be ignored. Trepidation trips through Ben in static shock even as he obeys. The hands on his ass are light, knowing. He turns his head, cheek on pillow, opens his mouth—

All words vanish as Armitage presses lips to trembling hole. Of course he knew that people do this. That could not have prepared him for the reality of it, of Armitage Hux's tongue probing light at his asshole, of clever quick fingers holding his cheeks apart so that he might swipe his tongue up and over his crack in burning pass, of the light pressure of two fingers there again, pulsing lightly against where there is not yet true give.

"I'm not in the habit of deflowering virgins," he says low in his throat, thoughtful and precise. "But I do know how to be careful." Leaning forward, his dick slots neatly into the welcoming space between his cheeks, and Armitage whispers into his ear, "But you are going to have to help.”

"I..."

Armitage rises again, slides his dick between his cheeks once, twice more. Then he's sitting back, breath warm on his hole again.

"You might think it has to hurt," he says, so soft. "But it doesn't. Not always." The kiss to the place where ass meets thigh trembles with that strange tenderness of before. "Not this time, anyway."

And then Armitage is kissing him again, as ravenous as before – except it's his _ass_ that he’s kissing, and Ben groans as he fists his fingers into the pillow, trying to hold his hips still even as he wants nothing do much ad to grind back into Armitage's face, to drive down on that teasing flick of tongue that never _quite_ pushes in, that never _quite_ gives him what he wants. Already his dick aches, against all odds hard and trapped between abdomen and sheet, and he expects soon he'll just go and—

Armitage withdraws, and he wails. He's never heard that sound from his own throat before, and the delighted laughter from Armitage sounds just as alien.

"Sit up," he says, and in his daze Ben lets himself be rolled over, lets Armitage prop him up against the headboard with legs wide and hips canted forward and up so that his wet hole is on display.

And Ben can't look away from those lips, even as Armitage takes the lubricant, squirts more onto his fingers. Those lips had pressed – that mouth had been—

Armitage leans down and slides Ben's dick into his mouth, and only the hand braved against one hip keeps Ben from bucking his entire length down his throat. Unlike in the shower, he doesn't take him entire, but instead he shifts his other hand, and presses the middle finger against Ben's hole.

His mouth opens on a silent gasp as it slips in, the resistance less than he'd thought. The few times he'd attempted this on himself, it had only ever been awkward, uncomfortable, and eventually completely without pleasure entirely. But with Armitage holding the top half of his dick in his mouth, tongue teasing at the head, index and ring finger moving in slow soothing rub as the middle goes deeper—

He does arch his back now, and Armitage withdraws his lips though not his hand. "All right, then?" he asks, faintly breathless, and Ben wants nothing so much as to kiss him again.

But he wants those fingers more. "Put it back in me," he says, though his voice shakes too much for it to be a command. With rolled eyes, Armitage reaches again for the lubricant, anoints his fingers afresh.

"As you wish." And it's two fingers this time, curved upwards in knowing beckon; as they push against his prostate, Ben arches again, eyes wide, dick hard in a way he's never known before.

"So beautiful." The murmured words have Ben looking to him in bewildered shock, but Armitage only nods, presses his lips to the head of his dick in reverent kiss. Gasping, Ben closes his eyes, fights back on a rising tide of panic and pleasure and something very much like _pain_ —

"Ben." He opens his eyes, finds Armitage hovering over him, brow furrowed, fingers removed. "Ben, you--"

"I want your dick," he blurts out, and even as his eyebrows rise Ben's voice solidifies, steadies. Reaching between them, he takes it in sure hand.

"Give me your dick," he says, and Armitage—Armitage _laughs_.

"I'd warn you to be careful," he says, soft, "but then you don't want to be careful anymore, do you?"

"No." It's perfectly honest, brutal and bare. He supposes he ruins it by pouting. "Why aren't you in me yet?”

The flash of – _something_ – over Armitage's features suggests Ben has actually got under that smooth shining veneer he wears as skin. But then Armitage shakes his head, pushes at his hip.

"Roll over."

"On my stomach?" Ben pushes back, lips pressed together. "No."

Knelt on the bed, very still, Armitage's eyes are unreadable. Ben swallows hard, ignores the frantic flutter in his abdomen, blinks until Armitage is in full focus.

"Will you..." Though he rolls over now, he remains on his side, one leg hitching slightly forward. And there he looks back over one shoulder, eyes burning, dick heavy weight on his thigh. "...like this?" Armitage finishes, at last. And he sighs, and Ben thinks for a moment that all is in ruin.

But Armitage moves up behind him, slim body pressed to his from shoulder to hip, dick pressed up against the ass he willingly presses back with.

"Nothing is simple with you, is it," he whispers into his ear with hot breath, bucking his hips in what feels a warning. Ben can only moan in return, Armitage's slim strong arms come around his chest, clever fingers pulling at his nipples.

But it doesn't last. As Armitage pulls back, Ben whines – and earns a slap to raised flank in return. Yelping, looking over, he finds Armitage rolling his eyes yet again, hands between his thighs as he rolls a condom over his dick.

"Patience," he says, quite deliberate, "is not a virtue you value highly, is it."

"Would you want me if I did?"

He'd answered breathless, instinctive: and for s moment, he believes completely incorrectly. But then Armitage snorts, shifts forward again, and hooks one hand under Ben's thigh.

"If only it were so simple," and Ben doesn't have a moment to reply or even think because the head of Armitage's dick is pressed to his hole and even though he's been slicked and prepped it's just not _ready_ and he sucks in a hissing breath, eyes scrunched tightly shut and abdomen tense—

The pressure eases, disappears. "Ben." He doesn't look around, curls deeper about himself. " _Ben_."

Even his dick is flagging, less blood pumping through its length. But when Armitage's hand comes to grasp it, the stroking doesn't seem designed only to arouse him back to compliance. It's thoughtful, gentle, and Armitage—

"It's all right if it's too much," he whispers, soft susurration against his ear, the words more vibration than sound. "We can just—"

When he opens his mouth, his own words come out only as a sob. Twisting in Armitage's embrace, he presses their lips together in desperate kiss, says:

"I still want you."

There's something golden in Armitage's eyes again, flecks of sunlight in dense green canopy. This time he only half rolls him, one hand slipping beneath Ben's neck as he has him twist, back flat upon the bed while his hips remain on their side.

From this faint height Armitage gazes down at him, searching and silent. The soft thrust of his hips melts away the stricture of muscle, eyes wide where he gazes upwards. With small nod, Armitage leans down, kisses him so soft that Ben feels his eyes turn salty and damp, and doesn't know why. His arms are splayed above his head and how he wants to _touch_ , and yet he also wants nothing more than just to lay here, to—

"Let me take care of you," Armitage murmurs, and Ben would gasp aloud at such mirroring of thought if not for Armitage's kiss, if not for the way his hips move, dick gentling over his hole.

"Press back." His fingers are there now too, teasing the rim, slick and smooth. "Bear down. It makes it easier."

It's awkward, feels entirely wrong for what they're doing, here in bed together. But Armitage speaks with command as much as with calm, and Ben pushes, shifts, and—

The head pops through with a flash of pain and then Armitage slides halfway in, the sensation alien and strange and yet somehow _perfect_ and Ben lets out a long and shuddering breath, closing his eyes.

"So perfect." He speaks as though it's a declaration, nothing but tender truth. Armitage sighs himself as he slides in further; with a choke, Ben arches up, pushes deeper to find that they've already gone as far as they can go.

"Ben," he whispers, and begins to move. "Oh, _Ben_."

The arm around his shoulders curls him closer, the other braced against his chest. Though he doesn't remember moving, Ben's own right hand is around his dick and grasping, grabbing helplessly without rhythm even as Armitage keeps perfect tempo. His kisses remain gentle even as Ben's are greedy, sloppy, desperate; he wants nothing more than for this to last forever, to ride this crest and fall of pleasure endlessly, to experience nothing more than _this_ —

Armitage's hands closes around his, correcting his pace to something new, to something _perfect_ , and Ben doesn't even realise he's coming until he feels the dampness in his hands and on his cheeks and then he's raising his hand, pressing palm and fingers to Armitage's face even as he draws back to gasp his own release, dick a low throb in Ben's ass as he clenches down hard, draws hissing low laughter before Armitage kisses him again.

The haze doesn't lift even after the last lightning spasms of orgasm fade. More exhaustion than person, Ben curls blindly into his bed, Armitage an oddly cool weight at his back. He doesn't know how long they lie together that way, but he does know that he whimpers when Armitage draws away.

"Hush," he says, fingers carding through the tangled damp hair at temple, over forehead. "I'll be back soon."

It's not sleep that claims him, but Ben feels as if he dreams anyway, any lingering discomfort vague in the face of his content. The shower runs, a distant sound connected to a reality that no longer interests him. He cares only when a hand rests upon his shoulder, cool skin against his warmth. For the first time he realises Armitage had covered him with a light sheet before leaving, and he's reluctant to stir from even so flimsy a chrysalis.

"Ben." Again, idle fingers move to his hair, as if Ben is an animal he's of a mind to pet. "I've drawn you a bath."

That makes him blink, turn his head. Armitage smiles, dressed now in shirtsleeves and trousers, hair brushed neatly back.

"Up you get, big boy," he says, tugging at his arms; Ben stumbles upwards, drunkenly, awkwardly, eyes on the floor. The other man is barefoot, his feet long and pale and oddly regal.

Armitage clicks his tongue, slides an arm about his waist; Ben leans into him without thought, follows him through to the bathroom again. There's no effort to it, for Armitage, and for not the first time Ben thinks that he is very much stronger than he looks.

Then he's climbing over porcelain, sinking into warm scented water, eyes closing, and he is gone. Baths have never been his thing. Tai had been more pleased about the tub, when they'd first viewed the apartment; Ben's always preferred the shower, whether quick or long. But he feels he could linger here for hours. Maybe he already has. Time is a concept with no meaning now, and Ben is entirely content with that.

There's a noise, somewhere distant: familiar in a way that suggests it ought to be important, though Ben pays it no heed. It's only when a hand comes on his shoulder, startling coolness against warmth, that Ben recognises it as his phone. Armitage holds it out to him, wordless. It's stopped ringing now, but he can see two missed calls. Both are Tai. As he stares, it starts ringing again.

Ben looks up, but Armitage has moved away, apparently returning to a chair he had to have brought in from the living room. As the phone keeps squawking, Armitage takes his place again, attention already on his tablet. He must have stayed to keep an eye on Ben. He actually _stayed_ —

"Are you going to answer that?" Armitage asks, and for all his tone is mild, it is also undeniably firm. Ben's stomach somersaults as he accepts the call.

He'd forgotten the plan. Though he'd had no real idea how long this would take, he'd told Tai to meet him after class, that they'd go out together for a burger, catch up in one of their favourite date spots. His voice is perfectly even as he confesses to "taking a nap," promising he won't be far.

"Lying to your roommate about me?"

Again, he's mild about it, but Ben is careful as he sets the phone down. "He's kind of old fashioned," he says, oddly even despite the fact he makes this up on the fly. "He wouldn't like me sleeping with a guy who I'm not actually dating."

Crossing one leg over the other, Armitage actually looks curious. "Oh?"

"He says I'm an old soul." That's no lie; he’s forgotten the number of times Tai has told him so. As he shifts in the tub, debating how to get up, Armitage also rises.

"You're leaving?"

"Aren't you?" One elegant hand indicates the abandoned phone. "Besides, I think we're done here."

Ben fidgets, still in the tub. "Are we?"

Armitage takes a long moment to reply. And then he's on his knees at his side, sweeping Ben's hair back with tender care, crooked smile on his lips.

"Ren would eat you alive," he says. "You know that, don't you?"

It's what Ben wants. Perhaps it's even what he _needs_. He meets Armitage's gaze with his own, steady in a way he has not felt in hours, and says, "Maybe you could be there too."

Balancing his chin upon his hand, elbow set upon the side of the tub, Armitage gives him a very long, very considering look. Then he snorts, pushes back to his feet, turns away.

"I don't think you're ready for that," he calls back over his shoulder, leaving the bathroom. In a heaving surge of water, Ben lurches out behind him; he drips like a drenched all over his own carpet as Armitage sets upon putting on his socks and shoes.

"Don't look like that," Armitage chides while Ben struggles for words. Shod, now he steps close, presses a hand against one cheek. The searching eyes seem true-blue now, thoughtful storm at sea.

"I had a good time," Armitage says, and even as Ben blurts out, "Me, too!" he goes on. "But you have do much to learn." He eyes glint silver – like Ren's pale braided hair. Like the unsheathed blade of a freshly sharpened knife.

"And I have so much to teach you." There's a faint hint of strawberry when Armitage touches their lips together; of all the things Ben might have expected of him, flavoured chapstick is not one of them.

"Will you?" Ben breathes into the scant space between them, and Armitage smiles: and he smiles like the rising sun, a blaze of red and gold and a whole new awakening.

"I do think I'd rather like to get that monstrous cock of yours inside me," he says lightly, and even as said cock twitches between Ben's thighs, exhausted but always eager, Armitage chuckles. Reaching forward, he gives it a fond stroke, runs a thumb over the thick head.

" _Such_ a good boy,” he murmurs, and with coat and bag in hand he opens the door, lets it slip closed behind him.

Ben's hand is already on his dick.


End file.
